


all the lies will grind you down (hold on)

by monsteruntermbett



Category: Charité | Charité at War (TV)
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Violence, POV Second Person, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pre-Canon, Suicidal Thoughts, Various OCs - Freeform, hopeful ending tho, look this is pretty f-ing miserable, poor boy, the period we're talking about is the nazi regime so please do not take this warning lightly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:53:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27206929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monsteruntermbett/pseuds/monsteruntermbett
Summary: You are thirteen, and even though you do not yet fully understand it, you know there is something that sets you apart. Something that seems to be wrong, but you do not, in your heart, feel wrong. Even then you know yourself.A look at Martin's life before canon. It is not a very nice story.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 9





	all the lies will grind you down (hold on)

**Author's Note:**

> Because clearly, there isn't enough misery and suffering in this fandom already.
> 
> Rated mainly for pretty heavy suicidal ideation; most of it is concentrated in the part labeled xii, if you want to skip that, but a theme throughout this whole thing.
> 
> Title (liberally) taken from _[Halt dich an deiner Liebe fest](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eZExcQQJw18)_ by Ton Steine Scherben.

i

You are twelve, and you have kissed your best friend. Just to see what it would be like, just to know what all the fuzz is about. Erich takes a step back and says “I have to go home”. He never speaks to you again.

ii

You are thirteen, and even though you do not yet fully understand it, you know there is something that sets you apart. Something that seems to be wrong, but you do not, in your heart, feel wrong. Even then you know yourself.

iii

You are fourteen, and in retrospect this is supposed to be the moment things change over night. Decades later, people will talk about this year as if the country fell under a dark spell, as if evilness suddenly appeared, but you know differently. The darkness has always been here.

The only thing that changes is the number of people willing to turn off the light.

iv

You are fifteen, and this is the first time you are beaten up. It will not be the last. A few young men, barely older than you, brown shirts and daggers at their hips, who shouted “Heil Hitler!” at you and did not appreciate it when you failed to respond in kind. The offence itself does not really matter. You recognize a few of them from school and know, had it not been that, they had found something else. It is over quickly and they leave you bleeding in the street.

You learn to despise heavy boots and people who are all dressed the same.

v

You are sixteen, and you graduate school by the skin of your teeth. Not for incompetence, you have always been a good student. But good grades require other things now than hard work.

You cannot in all honesty say you will miss it. The routine of school, maybe; not comfortable, certainly not safe, but familiar. On the other hand, it is not like you are off into the unknown. Your father has made it very clear that you are to start in the firm as soon as you are done with school. You do not argue. When you were younger you thought you might want to pursue higher education, go to university, but when you brought this up, your father just laughed at you. No, you are to follow in his footsteps, and he makes sure you are aware just how thankful you ought to be for the opportunity.

They do not apprentice you. In a way, this is almost better, because the work may be miserable but at least you do not have to work in the office, like your father. If you had to believe that you would spend the remainder of your days as an accountant, you would probably be tempted to jump off a bridge. Like this, you can at least pretend this is only temporary.

vi

You are eighteen, and for the first time in your life you are wearing an uniform. When you look at yourself in the mirror, you almost throw up.

vii

You are eighteen, and if you thought things were bad before this is so much worse. The Wehrmacht grinds your bones to dust and sieves out what it does not like. Which seems to be most there is of you. Sometimes you feel so hollowed out that even the sound of your own voice is foreign, echoing inside your skull.

viii

You are twenty, and you are in love. It is the kind of love you never believed existed outside of movies and cheesy novels, all-consuming, feverish. It could scare you, sometimes, how it seems to take over your soul, your heart, your every thought.

His name is Siggi and when he touches you, everything that is hollow and empty inside you fills with light. When you are not close to him, you feel like a part of you is missing, as if you are only whole when you are together.

This is dangerous. You know it is. You just cannot bring yourself to care. Not when this incredible person exists and makes you so, so happy, and the whole world be damned. It cannot be possible to hide it anyway, it must be written on your face plain as the colour of your eyes.

This is not something sick or degenerate or whatever the world would have you believe. It is precious and wonderful. And you feel stronger than you ever have, like nothing could touch you. Like love will keep you safe.

It is stupid and reckless, you know that. Siggi keeps talking about friends of his who got arrested and sentenced, never to be seen again. He begs you to be careful. To be cautious. He is the one who makes sure you do not walk too close to each other, or look at each other for too long or have conversations that might make it seem like you are inappropriately close. He is scared.

You, though, you are not. Even Sunday dinners with your parents become more bearable, now that you can look forward to Siggi's cramped apartment, where you will feel safe, and like everything could maybe be alright.

Your mother keeps dropping hints about how you seem happy and even asks whether there is a “young lady” you would like to bring around sometime. Even this, you will think later, was not enough to warn you.

But you are young, and you are in love. Some part of you still believes this must be enough.

ix

You are twenty, and the sound of boots on cobble stones will forever haunt your nightmares.

x

You are twenty, and a Polizeisekretär sits across from you on a desk under harsh light. He calls you Herr Schelling, tries to be friendly, but your ribs still ache from the batons. You do not fool yourself into thinking you might be shown mercy.

He rattles off the accusations. That you have been seen leaving Siggi's apartment, that you have no reason to know him so well, that you seem to go out of your way to meet him. That your relationship is offensive to people in your proximity, whatever that is supposed to mean.

You do not say anything. You should deny everything, find excuses, try to protect him, but every time you open your mouth the words die in your throat. Fear gags you and you cannot do more than shake your head in what you know to be a pitiful attempt at lying.

“Young man.” The speech is clearly well-rehearsed. “I want to be honest with you. You have managed to put yourself in quite a situation, but there might be a way out for you. Herr Rauhbach is well known to us. He's a seasoned criminal, you are just the latest of his victims. He's well versed in corrupting youths such as yourself. Regrettably, perverts like him know all too well how to seduce impressionable boys. You certainly do regret it, don't you? If you confess, it will be easier to convince a judge that you are willing to redeem yourself.”

 _Corrupting youths._ Siggi is three years older than you, and the most gentle person you have ever known.

He leans closer. “You are, aren't you? Try to be sensible. If you turn around now, you can still serve your country in the way you are supposed to, and front parole will do you good.”

You do not answer. What even is there to say? You briefly wonder how many men like you have sat at this exact table, have been made this exact offer.

_Give him up. He is going to the KZ anyway. Save yourself. Why would you throw away your life for a pervert._

“Hmm.” The man – he introduced himself, but you have already forgotten his name – flips your file closed. “Your stubbornness does not make you look good, let me tell you. If I were you, I would rethink my loyalties. That is, if honour means anything to you at all. Take him to his cell.” The last sentence is directed at the officer by the door. “I think Herr Schelling is yet to realize the direness of his situation.”

This is maybe the wrongest thing he said so far. Oh, you are aware. You just do not think there is any point in trying to save yourself.

xi

You turn twenty-one on the day of your trial. Five years front parole, and Siggi – he does not even look at you. It is the last time you will ever see him, and he does not look at you, stares at his feet, accepts his sentence with no reaction.

Two years in the camp.

They do have to set a time limit, but you know very well that people do not return from there.

You keep glancing at him, desperate to catch his gaze, for what you do not even know – what would you tell him? _I'm sorry_? _I will never forget you_? _Please don't die, I promise not to die if you won't, either_?

Even out of the corner of your eye you can see the bruises on his cheek, the marks peeking out from under his shirt. You want nothing more than run over to him, hold him. Tell him that you love him, that you do not regret knowing him, but there are guards on either side of you, hands on your arms, and you know it is pointless.

You steal one last glance at him as you are both lead from the court room, his profile, his hunched over posture. _I love you_ , you think as fierce as you can. _I will love you for as long as I live._

Which might not be very long at all. Still, as you lie awake at night you repeat it in your head like a prayer, over and over.

The next morning, there is a letter for you, and for a short, dizzying, absurd moment you expect a birthday card. The thought makes something icy cold bubble up in your chest, something that turns into a horrible, strangled sound between your teeth.

The handwriting on the envelope is unmistakable. As you try to open it, you notice that your hand is shaking.

This is the first time since your arrest that you have heard from your parents.

Not a visit, not an inquiry in all the weeks you have been held; you _wanted_ them so bad in the first days, needed them to be there for you. For advice, or support, or anything, really, you would have preferred yelling and accusations to this silence.

You still believed in your parent's love. Believed that there was someone on your side, someone who would never abandon you, even in the face of this catastrophe. Believed that some aspect of your life would be salvageable, some normalcy possible.

Evidently, this is the moment you should stop lying to yourself.

The letter starts with just your name, not even a greeting, and you cannot bring yourself to read it. What few words you pick up are bad enough, _shame_ and _disappointed_ and _betrayed. If God is merciful he will let you fall with honour and we will not have to lie when we say we have no children._ They seem to have anticipated your sentence then, or maybe just hoped to be spared the embarrassment of having their son sent to a camp. It is signed _Walter and Minna Schelling._

The letter falls from your hands. Maybe you should cry. It feels like crying would be appropriate.

You look at the envelope, opened once and then opened again, and feel nothing.

xii

You are twenty-one and you are thinking about dying. Not for the first time. But you feel like you might be serious about it now. You turn the gun over in your hand. It would be so easy. Everyone knows it happens, obviously, only most people aim at a hand or a leg, depending on what they think they will miss the least.

Some people will do anything to be sent home.

But you, you do not want to go home. Thinking about home hurts you, in a deep, visceral way, and you know you can never go back. The things you miss are not places. You miss being safe, you miss being loved, and you will never get any of this again. Your family disowned you, and you will never let yourself love anyone else, not after what happened to Siggi.

Easy. Tempting. You stroke along your neck, chin, temple: spinal chord, carotids, trachea. Brain. So many vulnerable structures in such a small space. Aim for the roof of your mouth, hold the barrel between your teeth. It would be a mess, true, but one you would not have to concern yourself with. And then what?

Nothing, that's what. It will all be over.

You think back to the cell, the letter on the floor. _If God is merciful...._ there is no honour in suicide which is precisely why Wehrmacht soldiers do not kill themselves. They fall in battle, and really, what is the difference? A dead body, closed casket. A brave son for your parents to mourn.

You think about your mother and father, clad in black, holding handkerchiefs, stoically watching dirt being shoveled into a grave. Receiving condolences and gratitude for their sacrifice, outwardly grieving. Inwardly, relieved to be rid of the shame of your existence.

Maybe they do not deserve that.

There is also the promise you made. _I will never forget you._ If you are gone, who is going to remember Siggi for who he really was?

Besides, you will probably die soon enough anyway. No need to rush it.

xiii

You are twenty-three and you have never wanted to live as much as you do right now. How could you ever be so stupid to think there was nothing here for you, no hope? There is, there are so many good reasons to keep on living.

Typical of you to realize this as you lie in the mud, slowly bleeding out from a leg torn to ribbons.

It is dark and you have lost your glasses. The flickering lights of the artillery could almost be fireworks.

It is very cold.

Despite yourself, you wish you could have talked to your mother one last time.

xiv

You are twenty-three and not yet dead.

Whether you are still alive is another question altogether.

xv

You are twenty-three and apparently, you cannot be killed. There is no other explanation for how you are still alive, still breathing, and since you are scheduled to be brought back to Berlin for surgery, it seems you are not in immediate danger of dying anymore. The war is over for you; you are in no condition to fight, and you have had enough medical training to know that you likely never will be again. They keep your leg wrapped up tight but you can smell the gangrene. It's only a matter of time until someone will hack it off.

Even drugged up and feverish you do not fool yourself into believing life as a crippled veteran with no real skills and no family to rely on will be easy. In fact, you know that you are just as likely to die of sepsis than return home a leg short. You may not have fallen on the battlefield but your parent's prayer may yet come true.

You should probably be more desperate than ever, but instead – maybe it is just the morphine making you mellow, but there is a strange serenity in knowing that your situation cannot get any worse. You will get better or you will die.

And since you have given up on dying, getting better is the only option.

xvi

You are twenty-three and you have just been offered a job. Part of you refuses to believe it, but the Professor does not seem to be joking, and you have been taken off morphine days ago, so this is likely not a hallucination, either.

A position on his ward.

“Are you serious?”, you cannot help but ask.

He looks a bit taken aback.

“Not that I do not appreciate the offer”, you add hastily, “but – I am not sure I would be up to the task.” _And you would not want to hire me if you knew my criminal history._

“What, you doubt my work? Give it a few more weeks, and you will be walking as good as anyone else, if you work for it. You would have to attend some lectures, of course, but with the amount of training you already have you will not have to do the full apprenticeship. We could have you certified in a month or two.”

That's not what you're concerned about. You can hardly ask him if he has seen your military file though, and you are absolutely not telling him about your conviction when he is surrounded by a flock of nurses and junior doctors and who knows what everyone else's role in here is.

The Professor squeezes your shoulder. “Think about it, hmm? But don't take too long.”

You watch him leave. The offer is not entirely selfless, you know that. Sauerbruch probably only wants to keep you around so he can show off the results of his revolutionary surgical technique. Still, you allow yourself to consider it. You have been on his ward long enough to know that he is abrasive and choleric, and quite full of himself (although with good reason), but you like his informality. Working under him certainly would be challenging, but then again, what else are you going to do? With your criminal record, the chances of being hired would be slim even if you had any usable qualifications. You do not know anyone who might apprentice you, and you certainly cannot go to your parents for help. The work in the field hospital had been gruelling and stressful, sure, but you also quite liked it. You were _good_ at it, too.

You shake your head at yourself. Right. As if the Professor would have offered if he knew, as if there was a chance of him not finding out. Still, you cannot stop looking at the ward with different eyes, the steady rhythm of the workflow, and imagine yourself as a part of it. It would be nice, you think, however unlikely.

It is childish, but you can indulge yourself a little. There is no harm in that.

A few days later, you have an appointment with the prosthetist. The Professor is there as well.

“Have you thought about it?” he asks as he measures your stump.

“I have.” That is an useless answer. Sauerbruch does not snap at you though, and you take that as a good sign. “It is very kind of you to offer, but”, you take a breath. Better to be upfront. “– you should know that I have a criminal record.” This is as specific as you are willing to be. Even this might have been too much, you can see the nurse who brought you perk up and immediately stare down at her file, pretending very hard not to listen. If he requests your information, he will see what you are convicted for, anyway.

Sauerbruch does not even look up. “Are you now? Well, I'll have to have a look at your files then.” He gestures at the nurse. “Get the next one down here, we don't have all day.”

She does not look very happy about being made to leave, but does not say anything. The glance she shoots you from the door could strip the paint from the walls, though.

“Martin, right? Wanna tell me what dreadful atrocity you have committed?”

You briefly consider lying. Sauerbruch would probably find out though, and then he would not take you on anyway. Might as well tell him. If you could only get the words out.

“It's -” What do you even say? _I fell in love with a man and that's somehow illegal_?

Sauerbruch gestures at you impatiently. “Spit it out! Nothing bad enough to keep you from the front, was it?”

You shake your head. “No, it's – 175.” You look him straight in the eyes as you say it, because this is not shameful. It is _not_. You refuse to be ashamed of one of the few good things you ever had, even if it almost destroyed you.

“Hmm.” You cannot, for the life of you, read his expression. “And they still let you go?”

“First offender. And I was a minor.” You can't help the light tinge of bitterness in your voice.

He nods. “Not really that impressive, to be honest.”

Was that a joke? You give a very careful half-smile. “Sorry to disappoint?” you offer.

Sauerbruch scoffs at that. “I bet you are. So, what's it gonna be? Do you want to stay on my ward?”

There is only one answer, and both of you know it.

“I would be honoured.”

xvii

You are twenty-four and life is – not terrible. You enjoy your work. You are careful to not form close friendships with anyone, but you are accepted as a part of the ward. Most of the patients like you, some veterans even seem to be genuinely relieved that there is someone there who has been to the front lines. Someone who understands them maybe a little better. You are often assigned to the new amputees, and you understand why. _Look_ , your presence says. _Life goes on. Don't despair. There is still a future ahead of you._

You were right about Sauerbruch wanting to show you off, but you cannot begrudge him that. He did amazing work, and you have seen enough people who had their leg amputated at the hip to appreciate the miracle of being able to walk at all. Even when your stump is sore and cold weather makes your hip stiffer than usual.

Maybe this is where you belong. Not that you are happy; there is still a war going on around you, and things that are much worse. It is hard to be content when you watch people disappear daily, when you still don't know what happened to the only man you ever loved. When you know that you will probably never find out. You are still on probation, and inquiring about Siggi would almost certainly result in another charge. If you even knew where to start. Maybe, if he had family in Berlin, you would take the risk, try to find his someone who could at least tell you if he is still alive. He does not though; he once told you the name of the saxon village he had been from, but you forgot, and it would be impossible to find anyone who could tell you about his fate, even if you were not closely watched.

Sometimes, you allow yourself to believe that he has been released. That he served out his sentence and went somewhere safer. He always said how he was not really made for the big city, so you imagine he went somewhere quiet, where he could start over. That he met someone who can make him very happy.

You know it is not true. But when you think about it, you almost feel like you could ever be happy again.

xviii

You are twenty-five and standing on the other side of the bed is the most beautiful man you have ever seen.

**Author's Note:**

> If you have made it this far, thank you for reading! I would love to hear your thoughts.


End file.
